


Long For the Touch of Your Hand

by sara_wolfe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/pseuds/sara_wolfe
Summary: “What’d I do wrong?” he asked, hating the plaintive tone in his voice but unable to stop it. “What’d I do, that you won’t touch me anymore?”





	Long For the Touch of Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the Good Omens Kink Meme: "Somewhere along the way, Aziraphale gets the idea Crowley doesn't like to be touched, and tries his absolute best to respect this. Crowley, for his part, thinks Aziraphale doesn't want to touch him at all. They eventually figure it out."

It started in Rome, with the oysters. 

Oysters led to wine, and wine led to more wine, and more wine led to cautious touches over dinner. Fingers that tangled together as they reached for the same bite on a plate, legs that brushed underneath the table. Little, thrilling touches that sent sparks flying along Aziraphale’s whole body. 

He’d never felt anything so exciting. 

They’d had to be careful, of course. Cautious. Heaven and Hell were watching them, especially in the early days, and they were risking everything by being together. But they’d found ways, little stolen moments where they could enjoy each other’s company. And for three hundred years, that was enough. They were content.

And then Greece happened. 

He and Crowley had met purely by coincidence at a fertility festival. They’d both been there on business, but they’d been able to wrap things up quickly enough to join the celebrations. And once wine had combined with the energy of the various fertility rights being performed, their public celebration rather quickly turned private. Emboldened by the alcohol, Aziraphale had taken Crowley to a quiet, secluded area he’d discovered. For the first time since they’d started their clandestine meetings, they spent more than just a few hours together, and Aziraphale wasn’t afraid to say that it was quite beautiful. 

Aziraphale didn’t often sleep, but he did after that, wrapped in Crowley’s arms and listening to the quiet sound of his heartbeat. He awoke a few hours later, cold and alone. 

Crowley hadn’t gone far, just a few feet away. He was sitting with his knees curled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs as he stared up at the stars. Moonlight illuminated him as brightly as the sun - including a series of dark bruises that littered his arms, his legs, and most damningly, the base of his throat. Aziraphale felt sick just looking at him. 

Could he have really done that? Could he have hurt Crowley so badly? He couldn’t remember, alcohol turning his memories into a haze. But he must have; how else could those bruises have gotten on Crowley’s skin?

Aziraphale wasn’t proud of what he did next. In fact, he spent the next few thousand years hating himself for it. But at the time, filled with shame and disgust, he crept away in the middle of the night, determined to leave Crowley with what little peace he seemed to have found with the stars. 

When they met up again, nearly two hundred and fifty years later, Aziraphale counted it his good fortune that Crowley was kind enough not to mention that night. And every time he was tempted to reach out and touch Crowley, to take his hand or run his fingers through his hair, all he had to do was remember those damnable bruises. 

Even if it meant never touching him again, Aziraphale would never let himself hurt Crowley like that, ever again.

* * *

The bus ride home from Tadfield was quiet. 

Crowley slumped against the window, his cheek resting against the cold glass still wet with condensation from the rapidly-cooling night. He was exhausted, his eyes drooping closed with every smooth patch of road the bus encountered. But as tired as he was, he couldn’t fall asleep. Not when he was so acutely aware of Aziraphale sitting in the seat next to him, mere inches away. 

Close enough to touch - if he dared. 

He didn’t reach out toward Aziraphale; he never did. Aziraphale had made it more than clear over the last several thousand years that that was the last thing he wanted. Instead, he folded in on himself, making himself just a bit smaller to give Aziraphale more room to stretch out. And he tried his best to ignore the tiny, traitorous part of his heart that, after all this time, still yearned for even the smallest bit of contact. 

The drive took almost an hour, Crowley speeding the journey as much as he could with what little energy he had left. He couldn’t remember ever having been so tired before. But then, he’d never exerted himself like this, before. Holding together the flaming Bentley, stopping time…if he didn’t use his powers like that again for a few years, it would still be too soon. 

Also too soon, the bus was pulling to a stop outside Crowley’s building. He blinked at the sight, unable to process what that meant until Aziraphale poked him quickly in the shoulder, startling him out of his fog. He bolted to his feet, stumbling down the aisle after Aziraphale and out onto the sidewalk. Before the driver could close the door after them, Crowley found the energy for one last miracle, ensuring a swift ride for the driver back to his usual route, and a hefty paycheck as compensation for the trouble they’d put him through. 

“That was kind of you,” Aziraphale commented, watching the bus disappear into the darkness. 

“Hmm,” Crowley replied, unable to get out a more coherent response when he was so busy just trying to stay on his feet. That last miracle had taken more out of him than he thought, and the last thing he wanted was to collapse and make Aziraphale feel obligated to haul him upstairs. 

When he finally felt like he could move without ending up in a puddle on the sidewalk, he led the way into the building and up to his flat. His hands shook as he tried to get the key into the lock, but he just didn’t have anything left for a miracle to get the door open. On the third try, he finally got the key in the lock and turned the door handle, shoving the door open far more forcefully than he’d meant and stepping inside. 

At the very last second, he remembered Ligur’s demise and the holy water splattered all over the floor, and he managed to twist his body in mid-air, throwing himself to the side as he went through the doorway. He landed painfully on the floor, hard enough that the impact resonated through his entire body, and his sunglasses flew off his face to skitter wildly across the floor, but he managed to avoid the holy water, and he slumped in relief when he realized that something was finally going his way.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, still standing in the doorway, and Crowley blinked up at him. He’d forgotten about the angel behind him. 

“Holy water,” he explained, pointing at the puddle. “Demons came after me earlier, I had to do something-”

“My dear, you scared me,” Aziraphale scolded, gently, looking down at him in concern. “I thought-” He trailed off, unwilling or unable to say what he’d been thinking. “Well, why don’t I get this cleaned up, then? Dangerous to leave this just lying around.”

Crowley just nodded, pushing himself slowly to his feet as Aziraphale quickly miracled the holy water out of existence. Making his way over to the couch, Crowley sank gratefully down into the cushions with a sigh, eyes slipping closed as he relaxed into the softness. Finally home, finally safe, and he was more than ready to fall asleep right here where he sat. The bed sounded better, of course, but it was so far away on the other end of the flat, and he was just so tired. 

When Aziraphale sat down next to him, the cushions dipping down under his weight, Crowley pressed himself as far as he could into the arm of the couch. He kept his eyes firmly closed so he couldn’t see the look on Aziraphale’s face, but he felt the way the couch shifted underneath them both as Aziraphale moved further away from him. Stomping down on the bright spark of pain that erupted in his heart, Crowley waved his hand in the direction of the bedroom at the back. 

“You can take the bedroom tonight, if you want,” he said. “I know you don’t normally sleep, but I figured, what with discorporating, long day and all-”

“I couldn’t-” Aziraphale started, but Crowley shook his head, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

“Couch is just fine for me,” he said. “I’m so tired I don’t even want to move, anyway.” Okay, so that whole thing was a lie, but better than admitting the truth. “Bed’s yours, tonight. No arguments,” he added, firmly, sensing Aziraphale winding himself up to do just that. 

He could practically feel Aziraphale deflating next to him. “Well, if you insist,” he said, weakly. 

“I insist,” Crowley echoed, stubbornly. “Besides, if Agnes’s prophecy is correct, we’re going to be facing something pretty nasty, and you’ll want to be well-rested.”

“What about you?” Aziraphale asked, softly, but Crowley stayed silent, at a loss for an answer. “I _am_ tired,” Aziraphale finally admitted, after several long moments of unusually-tense silence. “But I don’t think I could sleep. Not yet, anyway.”

“So, what do you propose?” Crowley asked, cracking an eye open to look quickly over at Aziraphale. 

In answer, Aziraphale waved his hand, conjuring up a bottle and a pair of glasses. Wordlessly, he leaned forward and poured generous portions into each glass, passing one to Crowley as he settled further back into the couch. 

“What is it?” Crowley asked, even as he took a sip. 

Aziraphale frowned at the bottle, but didn’t make a move to lean forward and read the label. “…alcoholic,” he finally answered, decisively. “Incredibly, potently alcoholic.”

Well that was good enough for Crowley. He quickly drained his first glass, and then a second, and a third - and after that, everything started blurring together and he quickly lost count. The foggy sensation from the bus had returned tenfold, and he felt dizzy and lightheaded, like he might simply float away if he moved from where he was sprawled. 

On the other end of the couch, Aziraphale had adopted a similar sprawl, bonelessly relaxed into the cushions like he belonged there. As he slumped further down, he shifted position and swung his legs up onto the couch to keep from sliding all the way onto the floor. He’d lost his shoes and socks sometime recently without Crowley noticing, and his bare feet pressed up against Crowley’s thigh for a brief moment as he stretched out. 

Crowley barely dared to breathe. Maybe if he didn’t move, Aziraphale wouldn’t realize that he was touching him, wouldn’t move his feet and take away the twin spots of heat that had sprang to life on Crowley’s thigh. Maybe if he was as still as a statue, maybe he could pretend for just a few minutes that Aziraphale deliberately wanted to touch him, could pretend that this tiny point of contact could lead to something more-

But then Aziraphale realized what he was doing, eyes flying open wide as he scrambled back away from Crowley, tucking his legs underneath himself like the contact with Crowley had burned his feet. Crowley pressed himself even further into his side of the couch, trying (and probably failing) to hide the hurt that flashed across his face. Without his sunglasses to shield his eyes, he tried to hide for a second by pouring himself another glass of whatever they were drinking, but his hands were shaking so badly that he had a feeling that his efforts had been in vain. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, but then he huffed out a frustrated breath and shook his head, and Crowley felt something inside of himself break at the dismissive gesture. 

“What’d I do wrong?” he asked, hating the plaintive tone in his voice but unable to stop it. “What’d I do, that you won’t touch me anymore?” His voice wobbled dangerously as tears threatened to burst forth, and he swallowed hard past a heavy lump in his throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, softer. “Crowley, I-”

“It feels like you’re punishing me for something I don’t even remember,” Crowley went on, in a rush, the alcohol loosening his tongue more than he normally would have allowed, “and I know I probably deserve it, but if you just tell me what I did wrong, I’ll try to fix it, Angel, I’ll do _anything_ -” 

He broke off as tears choked the words in his throat, and he scrubbed harshly at his suspiciously-wet eyes. “You used to touch me, and then you stopped, and I don’t know why,” he finished, dully, sniffling a little at the end. His eyes were fixed firmly on his lap, unwilling to look up and see pity or disgust in Aziraphale’s eyes at his pathetic display of emotionality.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, again, only this time he sounded like he was about to cry. “My dear, look at me. _Please_.”

Never able to ignore Aziraphale when he sounded like that, Crowley risked a glance up to see Aziraphale looking him with a positively heartbroken expression on his face. Guilt lanced through Crowley at the realization that he’d caused this, he was responsible for putting that expression on Aziraphale’s face, but before he could apologize, Aziraphale beat him to it. 

“My dear, I’m so sorry,” he said, quietly. “I’ve been wrong for so many years, and I hurt you badly, and I am so sorry.” 

Before Crowley could say anything in response, Aziraphale was reaching for him, his movements slow and careful, and then he was holding Crowley’s hands in his own, every point of contact a blazing heat that Crowley felt down in his very core. Aziraphale used his grip on Crowley’s hands to tug him closer, and Crowley was helpless to resist, sliding across the smooth surface of the couch until his legs were touching Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale let go of one of his hands, but only long enough to reach out and brush his fingers across Crowley’s cheek. Crowley leaned into the touch like one of his plants leaning toward the sun, and Aziraphale smiled sadly as he let his hand rest on Crowley’s face. 

“I hope you’ll let me try to make up for how I’ve hurt you,” Aziraphale told him. “All this time, I thought you didn’t want me to touch you. I thought I was hurting you when we touched; I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Crowley wracked his memory, trying to think of the last time he’d touched Aziraphale for longer than a second at a time, and he could only come up with one answer. “Athens,” he realized. “Was that - did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Aziraphale said, quickly, his voice shockingly loud in the quiet room. “Never,” he said, softer but no less emphatically. “I misunderstood, and I never bothered to try and clarify. I just assumed-”

“It’s not like I said anything, either,” Crowley interrupted him, not willing to let Aziraphale take all the blame. “I just kept everything inside and let it fester.”

“Never again,” Aziraphale vowed. 

He tugged at Crowley’s hands again, and this time Crowley found himself sliding, the world tipping on its side for a brief, dizzying moment. When everything stopped spinning, he was pressed up against Aziraphale, lying along the length of the couch, and Aziraphale had one arm wrapped around his waist, the other combing gently through his hair. Crowley shivered violently at the touch, barely able to handle the sensations running through his body, but he held tighter to Aziraphale, just in case the angel tried to think of letting go. Aziraphale hummed softly, reassuringly, never stopping his slow, hypnotic massage of Crowley’s scalp. 

They lay quietly for a few minutes, Crowley drowsing as he basked in the attention Aziraphale was lavishing on him. Being surrounded by the angel’s love felt like lying in sunlight, and as tired as he was, he could have easily fallen asleep right there. But something kept bothering him. 

“What did you mean, you misunderstood?” he finally asked, unable to rest until he’d figured it out. “I always thought things went well between us in Greece, and then-”

“And then I left you,” Aziraphale finished, quietly, when he trailed off. “I saw you, in the middle of the night,” he explained. “And you were covered in bruises, and I hated myself for putting them there, for hurting you like that-”

“Bruises?” Crowley echoed, confused. Then, he realized just what Aziraphale was talking about. “Angel,” he said, lifting his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder to look him in the eye, “none of that was you. Hell is not the kindest place, and I have a great many enemies down there. I had those bruises before I ever set foot in Greece.”

Instead of being reassured by his words, like he’d hoped, Aziraphale only looked more miserable. “They hurt you?”

“It’s Hell, Angel,” Crowley told him. “It’s what they do.” When Aziraphale still didn’t look convinced, Crowley reached up and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek with a hand that still trembled at the thrill of finally being allowed to touch. “What happened in Hell, that was thousands of years ago. It hasn’t mattered to me for a very long time. I found more important things to think about.”

“Like the Apocalypse?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Like you,” Crowley answered. 

Aziraphale blushed a bright scarlet, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Crowley’s wrist. Crowley felt the world drop out from underneath him for a second, and he buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder to try and ground himself. 

“I love you,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck, figuring that he had nothing left to lose, and he might as well lay everything on the line. “I’ve loved you for a while, now, and-”

He couldn’t continue, because Aziraphale had gently tipped his face up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, but he found that he didn’t really care, because _Aziraphale was kissing him_ and it was hard to think of things like words at the moment. And besides, if this was the last night they had before Heaven and Hell came after them, Crowley couldn’t imagine a better way to spend the time.

* * *

After all that, their trials in Heaven and Hell were almost anticlimactic. 

Crowley strolled into the column of hellfire, and then out of it a minute later, relishing in the stunned, terrified looks on the Archangels’ faces. He gave Gabriel a jaunty little wave as he headed for the escalator, hiding a chuckle at the way Gabriel flinched away from him. Maybe this would finally keep Heaven off Aziraphale’s back for a while, give him some much-needed peace. 

They lingered over lunch at the Ritz, luxuriating in not having to hide, in finally being free to enjoy each other. They shifted their chairs closer and closer together until they were sitting on the same side of the table. They snuck bites of food off each other’s plates - in one memorable moment, Aziraphale fed Crowley a small bite of pasta directly off his fork and Crowley nearly spontaneously combusted as a result. And perhaps what they enjoyed the most, holding hands on top of the table like every other lovesick couple in the restaurant.

Their joy at being together didn’t go unnoticed, either, the waitress smiling at them when she came by with Aziraphale’s dessert.

“Celebrating something special tonight?” she asked. 

“We are,” Aziraphale told her, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “We’re celebrating everything.”


End file.
